Sunday, August 3, 2008

When I was 14 I finally started spending my own money on haircuts. Of course it was no coincidence that I was in high school and I was in a new town and I didn't think my shaggy, pouffy mullet was really "in" anymore.

No, it was never "in". A combination of poverty and junior high depression resulted in a look that shouted "I haven't had a haircut in 6 months and I feel bad about that and please don't ask me about it!" Think Matthew Broderick in War Games, but add a whole lotta party in the back. No, think the kid in "Iron Eagle". That kind of coif.

So when we moved to Kingston and I had a little allowance money in my pocket I started spending a little of it on haircuts. A very little of it.

At George the $6 Barber. He specialized in the type of cuts the kids going to the Royal Military College needed to get: Buzzed on top, shaved on the sides, "high and tight". I never went that far; I made him work for my $6. But my haircuts were pretty basic. And George was old and practically blind. But even a blind barber can do a simple cut when he's been doing it for 50 years.

Ever since George I've been a big fan of barber shops. They are exceedingly manly sanctuaries, usually with a game on the television and a Maxim or a Playboy lying around to read while you wait for your turn to get your ears lowered. I love the barber.

But, I've also always been a little envious of Emily's "I'm going to get manis and pedis" afternoons. Not because I crave the girl talk or have a desire to get my toes painted; but for the relaxing nature of the experience. My cut takes 15 minutes; it's not exactly "me time". But there is no way in hell I'm going to go hang out at Pinkie's for an afternoon.

But I would like to just relax somewhere. And I'm not so attached to dirty fingernails that I fear a little pampering. If someone could do something about my cuticles or my clogged pores while not also asking me what colour my panties are, that would be great.

It turns out there is a place, a magical land of golf clubs and black leather furniture; of facials and football; of haircuts and beer.

Yeah. Beer.

Apparently at some salons when you walk in they spring champagne or wine on you or something. Champagne makes a fine drink in the afternoon if you are going to wait for your toenails to dry, but it's not my cuppa.

I went to American Male on Saturday, and the hot, bored, receptionist greeted me with my choice of beverage. I opted for a coke, because, well, it was 1 in the afternoon and there was no hockey game on; but it was nice to know that I could have had a beer if I wanted it.

There are golf clubs and skis hanging on the walls, and there is nothing like lavender stinking up the place. Just the scent of leather.

I was taken in hand by Linda, who asked "Have you ever had a paraffin dip?"

Surely that was a line. As was: "You look like that guy on Grey's Anatomy: Dr. McSteamy."

Whatever. They were good lines.

She wouldn't tell me what she was going to dip in wax until I agree to remove my wedding ring. I suppose she didn't want the reminder that she was asking a married man to go into the back room with her.

I admit it: the lines worked on me. I caved. I took off my ring and followed her into the back room.

And then Linda spent an hour doing things to me that no one ever has; touching me in ways that made me forget all about my commitment. To George, the $6 Barber and barbers everywhere.

My hands were dipped in hot paraffin wax and then wrapped in plastic bags and covered with something like an oven mitt. Then she took me over to the shampoo station and had me relax in the chair while she washed and conditioned my hair. And I found out that a facial is essentially a face massage, and it feels awesome. A hot towel on my face and a scalp massage later and I had a hard time remembering what I had even come in for. Hadn't I always been here? Lost in a haze of wax and conditioner?

But really I had come in for a haircut. It just so happens that this cut comes with a half hour of rubbing and stroking.

Eventually Linda and I made it over to another black leather chair. I sat in front of a huge mirror while she came up behind me and asked if I knew what I wanted.

"Um. No, it's my first time."

"Then let me take care of you."

Oh, Linda, baby. I'm in your hands. Forever.

She took care of me, alright. Pulling, tugging, getting out her little brushes every now and then to tickle my eyes and nose. I could see it all in the mirror.

Eventually, too soon, it was over.

"Do you want a blow?"

Wow. I didn't think I could handle that after everything else.

"We'll just let the air take care of you, then."

She had to hint, gently, more than once, that our time was over. I didn't want to hear it. I wanted to stay in that chair forever. But it wasn't to be.

I went to the counter and paid my bill with my personal credit card; I didn't want this one showing up on the joint account statement.

And I booked an appointment for two weeks from now. For a "cleanup".

I may never go back to a barber again. I may pay Linda to "detail" my hands and feet next time, or get a full body massage after my next cut.

I will never have to worry about my palms being hairy. I know that Linda will always be there, with her magic massaging fingers and hot wax.

Call me naive, but I don't think I quite understand what she did to you. Your hands were wrapped in hot wax and plastic bags and this was supposed to be enjoyable? Sounds more like what they did to torture soldiers in Vietnam.

I'm with Chag...I've seen how the ladie's have been treating you both at, and since blogher. It's starting to seem a bit cultish..."Join us, join us"...Well, as long as you don't max out that personal card, these spa days do add up, then I'm sure your wife will love not having to justify her own indulgences.

This is ironic. My husband just did a guest post on my blog a few days ago about a similar experience. The difference? He made the whole thing incredibly awkward and uncomfortable. He is the only person I know that could go in for that kind of treatment and come out more tense than when he went in!

You know what this means? You're a metro. A metrosexual. I know, I'm married to one. Luckily, so far he only spends about, I donno, a gazillion dollars more on his hair than I do mine. And still does the manscaping at home, for now.

We have something similar in our town - playstations and x-boxes while you wait, and fantastic pampering. I don't think the haircuts were up to much, but after the rest of the experience I really didn't care.

I told my hairstylist that someone should open salons for women with services provided by really hot male stylists and massage therapists who know what they're doing. No weak massages (with apologies to the husbands who try), and nothing too inappropriate going on--just pampering by hot men who know how to give a really good scalp massage during the shampoo. And who smell really good.

Seriously, when the little Vietnamese woman is scraping callouses off the soles of my feet while chatting away with her friend in a language I don't understand, I find it hard to get the eroticism you did. Again, something the men try to steal away from us and find a way to make it better. Feel free to take childbirth next.

You should check out"Knockouts." It's basically Hooters girls cutting your hair, with free beer. You really don't care what you look like when you get out of there, you just want to go back as soon as you can.

Misterpie could never sit still that long. Me? I loooove going to get my hair done. Something about being forced to just sit for two hours is so good. And having someone else wash your hair? Just feels so decadent, I love it. And that's just the hair, I dont' even need to go for the rest of the pampering, as long as I get to do that much. Mmmm...

I just read your other post about nicknames and I wanted to make sure of something. Are you sure your not "gay Shawn"? JK I enjoyed the way you told the story it sounded like you enjoyed yourself maybe a bit to much.

Recently I had to travel for six weeks, and while I was away my husband turned our master bath into his own personal man spa. It has an extra large spa type bathtub that he loves to spend hours in, reading usually. While I was gone he moved a television in the large doorway so he could watch movies, and he smoked his cigars and pipes in there too. Now that I'm home again, the only thing different is he doesn't smoke in there because my lungs can't handle the smoke. I strongly encourage every man to enjoy their own personal man spa at home if they can't afford to go out and do it.